


The Fledgling

by Argyle



Series: A Gentleman Vampire’s Dossier [1]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Transformation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Corruption Arc, M/M, Monsters in love, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: In which Dracula makes an effort to teach, and his Johnny is all-too-willing to learn.A collection of vignettes relating to the preternatural education of Jonathan Harker, Englishman, lawyer, and bride of Dracula.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: A Gentleman Vampire’s Dossier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899502
Comments: 49
Kudos: 362





	1. Becoming

Awareness comes upon Jonathan slowly, over hours, days—or perhaps yet longer.

Phase shifts of the moon. A tide that ebbs and flows.

At first there is only the leaded weight of his own limbs. The softness of the coverlet over his aching body. The slow – and ever slowing – in-out motion of his chest as he draws breath. And then the stillness when he does not.

Yes, so too there are a multitude of infinitesimal changes: his wounds smooth into perfect, pale skin; his nails harden into claws; his vision grows more sensitive, piercing; his teeth elongate, sharpen, throb when he skirts his tongue over them and draws blood.

_Blood._

Count Dracula – for of course he's here too: he's scarcely left Jonathan's side since he first dragged Jonathan's wrecked body from the riverbed, washed his sores with foul-smelling balms, and tucked him into bed – is uncommonly gentle, almost restrained as he touches Jonathan's cheek and thumbs his lip back to expose these new fangs. He smiles, murmuring, "Beautiful, Johnny. Simply beautiful." And then: "There will come a time when you'll need to feed yourself. But until then, I've taken the liberty of completing the legwork."

_Blood._

Dracula leans over to the bedside table and retrieves a long-stemmed goblet, all gleaming, multifaceted glass which captures the candlelight and carves it into daggers, bringing tears to Jonathan's eyes. His entire body quakes, but he swallows, unwilling to turn away.

But no, that isn't right. It isn't the light that's set Jonathan reeling—

Blood.

The glass is full to brimming with the stuff. Jonathan sighs as Dracula sets the rim against his mouth and he gets his first taste—drinks it down, down, down—struggles to comprehend how something could at once be so pungent and sweet and rich. Impossibly intoxicating.

He grapples the glass from Dracula's hands and tips it back, lapping up the dregs.

Dracula laughs. "That's it, my dear. Yes. You're doing so well already."

But Jonathan shivers, suddenly wretched—he wants, _needs_ —"More. P-please—"

And Dracula is happy to acquiesce. With each serving, Jonathan feels stronger, steadier, more complete than he has in a very long time. More fully himself. And not only himself: when Dracula at last takes the glass away and leans forward to lick the dribbled blood from Jonathan's face, to nibble at his mouth and part his lips, Jonathan opens to him.

And he can't remember ever feeling like this before. Wanting like _this_.

After a while, Dracula joins Jonathan on the bed, stretching his long frame out beside him. He's still fully clothed, his white shirt parted enticingly at the collar, while Jonathan is naked beneath the bedsheets. But he hasn't the will to care... not when Dracula's strong hands are upon him, stroking up and down his body, mapping him. Marking him.

Jonathan moans as Dracula deepens the kiss, his tongue delving in determinedly, claiming tribute. And Dracula is without mercy. Acquisitive and hungry.

Monstrous.

And as for Jonathan—Well. He can learn.


	2. Sustenance

It's been several long months since Jonathan came to Castle Dracula—since he last found himself in the company of men.

But it feels like far longer.

Earlier that night, Dracula laid out a handsome new suit of clothes for him – all fine, tailored materials and an excellent match for Dracula's own bespoke attire – and upon seeing him dressed, took him in his arms and kissed him deeply. And then: "You do clean up so nicely. Though I must confess, as much as I enjoy seeing you in these, Johnny, I'm far more enticed by the prospect of stripping you out of them. But first, I've a little diversion planned for us this evening."

And what he meant was this: they would feed. Jonathan trembled at the thought—

Of _feeding_. Of taking a human _life_. For up until that time, Dracula just flicked open a bottle and filled Jonathan's glass, granting him the illusion of distance, the ability to slake his hunger without admitting its singular truth.

They saddled their horses just as the midsummer moon was cresting the mountain pass and made the hour's journey to the village.

And now they sit side-by-side on a tavern bench. Their flagons remain untouched on the table before them. And Jonathan's senses are overflowing, nigh on overwhelmed by the raucous roar of laughter and song, the scent of spilled ale and sweat and piss—the chaotic beat of humanity, the throb and heat of life.

The unbearably rich aroma of mortal, living _blood_.

Jonathan sucks in a breath, clenching in on himself as though he's been dealt a blow. "I can't—"

"Steady, my dear." Dracula gives Jonathan's thigh a reassuring squeeze. "You must choose with care," he says. "Now _look_. Seek out health. Intellect. Humor. Reach out with your senses and tell me who it shall be."

For a long moment, Jonathan closes his eyes. He listens to their voices, to the thrum of their hearts. He appraises their rhythms. He thumbs through their minds like pages in a book. And then, softly: "Him."

Dracula follows Jonathan's gaze to a young man seated at the bar. Quiet. Fit, with a tall build, but uncalloused hands. A scholar lately returned from university; a contemplative soul who in another life might have been Jonathan's peer.

"Yes," Dracula murmurs. "Well done."

They wait until the man tosses a handful of coins onto the bartop and makes his leave, quietly trailing him into the cool night—

And Dracula brings him down in an instant. He uses one hand to cover the man's mouth, stifling his cries, and the other to hold his throat: his sharp nail pierces the flesh over his jugular so easily.

Jonathan moans. His fangs descend, unbidden.

He must not—

He _must_ —

"Hungry?" Dracula laughs. "Bite deep, Johnny. It's always best that way."

For a minute more, Jonathan resists. Then he falls to his knees.

He takes the man's shoulder and holds him steady.

And as his lord advises, he bites—

Very deep.


	3. Sleep

"But surely there must be some order to it," Jonathan says. "A _reason_ why some people don't..."

"Stay dead?" Dracula offers.

"Yes." And yet what Jonathan means is this: _Why me?_ What makes him different? For though Dracula is ever quick to impress upon him that he, among all his victims – and all his previous brides – is singular, beautiful, he simply cannot abide the unlikelihood of it.

Surely there are some strange mechanics at work. Sinister alignments which Dracula is unwilling to explain. The sheer number of sealed boxes hidden within the castle's endless, labyrinthian crypts begs no other defense—

Jonathan has heard their voices often enough.

Hell, he's faced them. Witnessed the horror of their ancient, rotting bodies. And they were people, once. They had _lives_.

So why not let them go? Why not burn, stake, or otherwise destroy them in such a manner as to at last grant, for all time, rightful sleep?

Why keep them, bound but ever-present, like so many links in an iron chain?

"Like Marley's ghost," Jonathan whispers, absently. Of course, he's complicit enough in forging his own shackles—but preventing those he has drained from becoming revenants is the least he can do.

Dracula lets out a short laugh. "Ah. Dickens again, is it? And, may I remind you, a work of pure fiction." His mouth has by now curled into a tight, mocking smile. The fireplace casts the broad panes of his face in a patchwork of shadow and light, cold and warmth, but his eyes remain illuminated. Sharp. "Really, Johnny. I wish you wouldn't insist on being so boorishly sentimental. It's exhausting," he sighs. And then: "When it comes down to it, when death comes knocking, some people just aren't _ready_ to accept it. But as with all things, there are gradations. Eternity isn't for everyone. I – and _you_ , Johnny, you too, for all your glorious, posturing sensitivity – are the exception."

He lifts himself from his chair and extends a hand. "Come. It's nearly dawn."

Jonathan follows him down to the crypt. There's a torch lit over the stone coffin they've come to share, though he no longer needs it to guide his way: he crawls inside unassisted, stretches out on the silk lining and breathes deeply of the still, cool air. Then he reaches out with his senses, grounds himself to the earth below and the moon, unseen but deeply felt, above.

Dracula slides in beside him. For a moment, Jonathan is able to study his features. His eyes. His nose. The full shape of his mouth, at once supple and cruel. "All right, Johnny?" he whispers. His breath falls in a cool puff against Jonathan's cheek.

And Jonathan is – ever, ever – caught in his sway.

"Yes. I'm fine."

Dracula pulls the lid closed.

Here and there, Jonathan can make out the sound of skeletal hands scrabbling against pinewood boxes, and the moans of those denied peace so long ago.

And then unconsciousness claims him. And then: nothing at all.


	4. Form

It's common for Jonathan to find himself in a different alignment upon waking than when he succumbed to sleep.

Unlike Dracula, he loses consciousness at the onset of day. And fitful, vivid dreams coax his limbs into movement—and so too to seek out Dracula's embrace.

Tonight, Dracula's arms bind Jonathan in a gentle but secure ring. His face is tucked against Dracula's chest, and his nose, set just within the open collar, is deliciously tickled by that thick thatch of hair. He can't resist breathing in his lord's scent, at once earthy and clean.

"There you are, Johnny." The coffin is still closed, but Jonathan doesn't need light to pick out the smile in his lord's voice. "And here I thought you might doze the whole night away."

As if Dracula might allow such a thing—as if he has no plans for Jonathan.

After they've shared a bottle from their stores, they make their way to a windowless, sparsely furnished room in the east wing of the castle.

Then they strip out of their clothes.

Absently, Jonathan recalls a time when exposing himself in such a manner would have perturbed – no, no less than utterly _humiliated_ – him, his body ever a source of shame and secrecy. But the way Dracula looks at him... the ardor, the _hunger_ in his eyes—Well. Who is Jonathan to deny him? Not when Dracula is similarly laid bare, a splendor of strength and form, a veritable feast for Jonathan's retooled senses.

Dracula catches Jonathan's gaze and grins wolfishly. And then: "Now, Johnny, I want you to pay attention to what I'm about to tell you. I can't have you scattering off, losing yourself to the winds like some damned wisp of smoke."

And what Dracula tells him is this: the method by which he might transform his physical body into an incorporeal mist. Jonathan has observed Dracula perform this trick a dozen times or more. What better way to approach one's prey while remaining completely unobserved?

But to do so himself, equipped with naught but his still-new vampiric blood... He doubts it's possible.

And yet—

Jonathan follows Dracula's lead, centering and steadying himself, focusing his intent into a point, needle-sharp and true. He exhales. Inhales. Holds...

It begins with a tingling sensation in his core, a loosening, a smooth unwinding. And then he quite literally begins to come apart at his seams. Each fibre, every atom, expands out from its natural place, and he is at once whole and disparate—a singular, insidious mass of crimson mist. He's aware of his surroundings, though he lacks eyes. He's still aware of _him_.

Dracula laughs heartily. "Yes, Johnny. Excellent. Now: return to me."

With tremendous effort, Jonathan pulls himself back together. The act of reformation is acutely painful. But after several long moments he collapses to the floor, disoriented, panting and covered in sweat. He groans.

Dracula takes him in his arms, lifts him and kisses him fiercely. "Good, my dear boy. Very good."


	5. Carnality

When Jonathan was young, his mother recounted a summer long past in which a newborn lamb imprinted itself upon her. Thought her its mama. Ate berries from her palm. Came running when she called, its own nature utterly supplanted.

Jonathan always supposed this was true, though it had the air of a fairy story about it. His mother smiled so warmly... until forced to admit the poor animal was eventually slaughtered.

And why remember this, of all things?

Jonathan is aware he has lost much.

Whole swaths of memory—details of his childhood, schooling – his ordinary, mortal _existence_ – were yanked, root to blossom, from his mental landscape.

Again, a fairy story: he knows that before Dracula, he loved someone.

A woman.

A woman with spun-gold hair, rose petal lips, and a wicked sense of humor.

He can't conjure her name. Or the shape of her face, really. But he understands that though committed, their union went unconsummated. They'd been saving themselves for each other, as it were, and the low, ever-present ache of longing had been as much a part of his life as food or rest.

And so he must suppose that he died with a somewhat blank slate.

He has certainly never been _fucked_ before.

"Do you want this, Johnny?" Dracula asks, his mouth glistening red where Jonathan has nipped at him.

And oh, Jonathan does.

Dracula takes his time, reverent, parting Jonathan's shirt as if unwrapping a present. But Jonathan is impatient. The sheer physicality of the moment – Dracula's voice and scent and body – Dracula's hard, thick cock, already leaking preseed – by God, the _lust_ in his red-rimmed eyes—

Well. It makes Jonathan shake with anticipation, and when Dracula finally pushes into him, he bites down on his tongue with enough force to draw blood. Dracula laughs at this. It isn't as if he hasn't prepared Jonathan: he's spent the last several minutes working one slicked finger and then another into Jonathan's hole, leaving Jonathan begging, clawing his hands into the sheets.

Now tears sting at the corner of his eyes as his body stretches to accommodate the intrusion. Dracula begins to rock his hips, slowly at first, edging back until his cock is nearly out before thrusting back. Then again; again, angling to strike a spot that explodes stars into Jonathan's vision.

He sets his lips to Jonathan's chest, just above his unbeating core.

He licks up Jonathan's collarbone.

And he rumbles against Jonathan's throat, "Johnny, Johnny. I want your blood, Johnny."

Jonathan gasps and cranes his neck in offering. " _Please_."

Dracula doesn't hesitate. And Jonathan doesn't stand a chance. He groans as the wave of pleasure and pain overtakes him. A few more thrusts, another drag of Jonathan's blood, and Dracula joins him, coming with a growl.

Jonathan allows Dracula to hug him to his breast. And surely, he should be terrified of this monster. Surely, feeling the tickle of breath at his nape, his whole heart should not go out to him at once.


	6. History

The restorative abilities of vampiric physiology know no bounds.

Of course, Jonathan should have realized this. He did, after all, witness firsthand Dracula's astonishingly swift transformation upon imbibing blood.

Jonathan's living, human blood.

His own very lifeforce, usurped almost immediately upon his entry to the castle—this an admission he has come to terms with – willfully forced beyond resentment – for all the ecstasies his lord has granted him in return.

And yet: an experience closer still. As one night passes into the next, Jonathan notices that even his oldest and deepest imperfections – the evidence of childhood scrapes and adolescent scars – grow paler, more muted, before disappearing altogether. His few wrinkles, the more entrenched lines about his mouth and eyes, become yet fewer, and the most persistent grays are excised from his hair.

And the smattering of freckles on his shoulders, a tender, boyish feature that at once became Dracula's first port-of-call when mouthing his way down Jonathan's back, one evening simply vanishes—

On and on until Jonathan is as pale and smooth as polished stone, save for the one narrow, jagged scar at his throat: the place where Dracula first drank from him. Marked him.

Claimed him.

In idle moments, Jonathan tries to reckon that Dracula might be similarly marked—that he too was once taken as an immortal bride. But the current visage of the sophisticated if ruthless vampire, superimposed over that of a long-ago warlord prince, fiercely armored and impossibly tall atop his mount, powerful and cruel beyond all, is almost too frightening to imagine. Or too monstrous to think his origins stem from anywhere but Hell itself.

Certainly, Dracula lacks any telltale scarring at his neck.

And yet—

Jonathan has Dracula's cock in his mouth, has taken his length down to the root until it bumps against his throat and he swallows breathlessly around it, when he notices the spot. His fingers brush against it as he braces Dracula's thigh, right above the femoral artery.

It's barely anything. A mark which is more like the tracing of a tracing, faded and elegant. But damned if it isn't there nonetheless.

Before he can consider it further, Dracula's fingers slide into his hair and _twist_. Jonathan groans at the jolt of pain. Then he takes up his cock and begins to work himself in time, and it's only a minute more before he's gulping down Dracula's come and spilling into his own palm. When he pulls off, Dracula drags him up to his chest and kisses him hotly. "You're getting so good at that, Johnny," he laughs.

But later, Jonathan can't keep his attention off it. It's not long before Dracula notices.

"Is there something you'd like to ask me?"

Jonathan hesitates. Surely Dracula will take none too kindly to the intrusion.

But then again, Dracula's expression has – almost imperceptibly – softened. And then again, he guides Jonathan's hand to the scar.

"How did it happen?" asks Jonathan. "Who made you?"

Dracula smiles indulgently. "It's a strange and bloody tale..."


	7. Heritage

Dracula is an excellent storyteller.

Even in those first nights following Jonathan's arrival at the castle, after supping on meals he then, meeting no servants, only vaguely suspected were prepared by the Count himself, he sat by the fireside and was gladly regaled by tales of battles long since won – or lost – and the great line of Dracula's noble forefathers who fought to defend that wild land.

Dracula spoke with such fondness and enthusiasm. Such clarity, as though it was _he_ who strode across the battlefield, bloody and battered, wild-eyed and grinning slike some ancient, thirsty god.

And of course it was. Just as it was he who, in the end, was struck down by the business end of an Ottoman spear.

Dracula leans back on the sofa and strokes his ribcage. "Hurt like the devil," he says. "I'd seen so many of my men die of lesser injuries that I knew at once I was done for." He pauses, his gaze suddenly far away. The fire crackles and hisses. And then: "There was no one left. The ravens were amassing overhead. I wouldn't even receive a proper burial."

Jonathan weighs his words, acutely aware that the next part of the tale will take them both into uncharted waters. Even getting Dracula to reveal this much has been a challenge. But gradually, Dracula has opened up to him.

"It sounds terrifying," he ventures at length.

Dracula shrugs. "Those were warlike days. Nothing was terrifying if everything was... though that's not to say the one who uncovered my festering body wasn't the source of some consternation. This is a deeply superstitious land—nowadays, but especially then. I was raised on stories of old witches who mated with devils in the darkness. _Vrolok_ and _vlkoslak_." His mouth curls into a grin. "Vampires. The undead. Do you understand?"

Jonathan swallows. Even with the truth at hand – the truth that has swallowed him whole – the truth that he has come to plainly relish – his own Anglican upbringing would have him baulk at such things. And yet: "I think so. Yes."

"Thus I discovered that such things are not merely superstition. The Szekely wench who found me was such a creature, and I looked upon her, delirious, half-mad, from my deathbed with equal parts revulsion and awe," says Dracula, taking a contemplative sip from his goblet. "She called herself Kitarni, and indeed she was older than I am now. She fed from me; she fed me her blood. We fucked like a couple of beasts. And I remained by her side for a quarter century, eager to master everything she might teach me."

"And then?"

"I ripped her head off."

Jonathan stares at him, unable to suppress his horror. "Why?"

"I wanted to see if I could." Dracula's eyes narrow as he reaches forward and takes Jonathan's cheek in hand, too-gently brushing his thumb over Jonathan's lips. Then he laughs and continues in a singsong voice, "Now, now, Johnny. Don't be getting any bright ideas."


	8. Groundwork

The papers are signed. The correspondence sent. The passage booked: Dracula and Jonathan will soon be on their way.

Jonathan is going home.

Although he enjoys the chance to flex his lawyerly muscles once more, the thought of it – the very idea of _England_ – vexes him, like a vivid dream which flickers out of mind upon waking. For in truth, Castle Dracula has become more hospitable to him with each passing week. He enjoys navigating its labyrinthian corridors by memory alone—especially the odd corners which not even old Vitruvius marked on his maps.

"Mightn't we stay on a while longer? I've scarcely been beyond the Borgo Pass since—Since I arrived. There's much I might yet discover," he suggests one night, a trifle sheepishly, as he seals and stamps a thick sheaf of documents. And this is certainly true. But another part of him keenly recalls the promise Dracula made on the high battlement. The truth of his intent in departing his homeland: nothing less than utter destruction.

And so too Jonathan shivers to recall his own pledge to stop him, and is gravely aware it's one he won't – no: cannot, not _now_ , not after all that's happened – keep.

Dracula doesn't look up from the _Bradshaw's_ railway guide he's studying, but his mouth curls into a smile. "No, Johnny. You know that isn't possible," he says. "You English are so fond of keeping to your schedules. I wouldn't dare disappoint."

Of course there's the matter of their luggage, all but packed and at the ready. They've each a portmanteau of personal effects. There are three large cases of various books, manuscripts, and scrolls.

There's a heaving satchel of coins and bank notes, tokens plucked from a treasure trove beyond the dreams of avarice.

And there are fifty pine boxes delivered to the courtyard one day, and which Dracula and Jonathan haul into the castle's belly, beneath the crypt, deep and low where the stench of decay is chokingly thick.

They spend a long night filling each box to brimming with Transylvanian earth. They're stripped down to their shirtsleeves, and then out of these too. Thick blotches of loam and clay cake Jonathan's exposed skin, and from time to time he's struck by the idea that this must the stuff he's always been made of, and not flesh and blood at all.

But the work doesn't raise a sweat: he's so very strong, and Dracula—Well. He draws Jonathan into his arms and clutches him as though he might keep him there forever.

Then he drags a sharp nail over his breast. Generous rivulets of blood well up and drip downward, and Jonathan groans, captivated.

Dracula laughs. "Yes, dear one. Shore up your power, for the road ahead is long. Drink," he urges, "and be truly mine."

Jonathan leans in. Then he begins to lap up the blood, shivering, tingling, every hair at once on end as before the strike of lightning. The Devil take him whole—it's so _good_.


	9. Devotion

The agony of Jonathan's transformation – the burn of his human body warping, fusing, reforming into that of a wolf – begins to fade, and he opens his jaws to breathe deeply of the night. The endless woods and the creatures that make their home within. The loam and decay. The heavy, humid air which alone warms his body, each lungful a rich concoction—something to be savored; sipped like hot rum. Or living blood.

So too, he smells Dracula. Not the earthy odor of a vampire, but a dank, unmistakably animalistic musk.

Jonathan's hackles rise as Dracula lets out a long, low howl: a summons to his minions. Then he turns to his bride, his voice echoing deep within Jonathan's mind: _Come, Johnny. Run with me._

There's a wondrous freedom to it. Jonathan shadows Dracula far from the castle gates to a wide, boulder-studded clearing and beyond. It's only a matter of minutes before the native wolves begin to gather, and Jonathan at once realizes what's to transpire here: their lord will hold court.

And not only. Dracula is preparing them for his departure. He's bidding them goodbye.

Mournful chatter, a tumult of bays and barks, picks up among the assembly, and Jonathan wars with himself. How indeed can he expect to negotiate between his instincts if the mere sound of them unsettles him so?

But why? These wolves could no more harm him than any other beast of prey—nor, recognizing Jonathan's place at their master's side, would they make such an attempt. And yet unbidden, he recalls the terror he felt as they dogged his carriage the night he first traveled to this place. Jonathan witnessed Dracula control them with a gesture, steady them with a word, and in that moment first sensed the weight of his power... though he failed to comprehend its magnitude.

Now there's no question, for he too is beholden.

Now he _knows_.

They shed their wolfskins by the riverside. These will, Jonathan has previously confirmed, turn to ash in the light of day, while the remnant viscera can easily enough be rinsed from his skin—

In an instant, Dracula takes hold of him, dropping them both to the shore with a growl. "Not yet, Johnny."

Jonathan gasps as the rocks bite into the flesh of his back, and groans when Dracula crushes their mouths together, delving with his tongue. A jolt of arousal circuits through him when Dracula sets himself between his legs to get their hardening cocks aligned in his blood-slick fist. Then he begins to stroke them in twain.

It's impossible—simply impossible—for Jonathan to stop from rutting against him. And perhaps this too is instinctual. It's certainly enough to coax a grin across Dracula's features. His face is glistening with blood, and in the bright light of the moon, his eyes shine red.

"What a wonder you are," he says. And he is vast. And he is terrifying. And he is beloved. "I'm so glad I decided to keep you."


	10. Departure

_HELP US_

It's by accident that Jonathan comes upon these words, each letter a gnarled, moonstruck shadow strewn across the bedchamber floor. His own bedchamber, he suddenly remembers. The room Dracula took him to upon his arrival at the castle.

The room where Dracula _took_ him.

How could he have forgotten?

Slowly, deliberately, he walks inside. The bed is made; the chair is tucked beneath the desk; the pitcher and basin sit empty. There in fact isn't any reason to believe the space might have been occupied within the last decade—and yet then again, no. The armoire sits ajar, and inside hang what can only be Jonathan's own belongings: two shirts, two pairs of trousers, a tie, a pair of shoes, and his satchel, empty save for a folio of legal documents, a couple of old ticket stubs, and his dogeared polyglot dictionary.

He stares down at it all, unexpectedly disoriented, each piece appearing as incomprehensible as an artefact from some a long fallen civilization.

And surely there must have been _more_ , once.

Surely this isn't everything Jonathan brought with him from England. And yet in the months since assuming his place at Dracula's side, has he given such things even the barest thought? It isn't as if he has gone without. Dracula takes such pleasure in procuring fine new clothing for him, dressing him, taking care of him as he always does. And yet—

_HELP US_

This plea likewise leaves Jonathan befuddled. He touches the glass where it's been carved, trying to remember its significance. Had there been... others... here in the castle?

"No one who mattered." Dracula's voice precedes the man himself, and then he rounds the corner into the room, looking grand in his blood red brocade-lined cloak. He smiles. "Come, Johnny. Our chariot awaits."

Then he takes Jonathan in his arms and kisses him soundly. Jonathan gasps as a map of his own future is planted, fully formed, into his mind: their bags are packed. A coach and four black horses await them outside. Within the cabin rests the box of earth they'll take their daily rest in over the week's ride to Varna, from which they'll board a small sailing ship and begin their voyage in earnest. Dracula, Jonathan now understands, has deliberately curated the passenger roster, all the better to entertain, edify, and enjoy. And the ship—

" _Demeter_?"

"The goddess of the harvest who shall deliver us into the lush pastures of your native land," Dracula says, his long, cold hand still cupping Jonathan's cheek. "As you shall deliver me. You are the high road, Johnny. You will lead the way."

Jonathan shivers, pressing into the contact. "Thank you, my lord."

Dracula laughs and kisses him again before taking him by the arm and leading him out of the room, down the staircase, into the hall and through the great doors from which escape was never an option; into the richly scented air, cooler now as summer ekes into autumn.

Into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello @ [argyleheir.tumblr.com](https://argyleheir.tumblr.com/)


End file.
